


Sharpe's Coat

by Sharpiefan



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types, Sharpe Series - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soldiers and sailors inhabit very different worlds. There were times Sharpe was glad he’d joined the Army instead of the Navy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpe's Coat

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sharpe and nor do I make any profit from my fic.

There were times Sharpe was glad he’d joined the Army instead of the Navy. The first time he realised this was when the 33rd marched into Chatham, and he saw the masts of the ships in the Medway. Not all of the ships had masts, of course; there were several ships in various stages of being built, and further downstream there were numerous old ships, which were now pressed into use as prison hulks, for French prisoners of war, and criminals waiting to be transported to Australia.  
  
This was the first time he had ever seen ships, and the River Medway seemed a foreign place. At first he thought it was the sea, and he spent as much time as he could just watching the river and the people bustling about. One of his favourite vantage points gave him a clear view across to Rochester. The castle and the cathedral stood out on the skyline, visible for miles around.  
  
At other times, he’d walk around the dockyard, trying not to get in the way of scurrying sailors and marching Marines. He was glad that his red uniform jacket and bayonet belt with its gleaming plate gave him some protection. He’d seen the pressgangs returning from all over the country, seemingly, with a fresh catch of men destined to become sailors in His Majesty’s Navy. At one time, Sharpe would have kept as far away from ports as possible, to avoid being taken up by the Press.  
  
But now, he could watch with perfect safety, confident in the jacket that marked him out as a soldier. Was there a pride there as well? He wasn’t sure, even when Jed Mallinson and others needled him about the state of his uniform. “At least we have a uniform,” he’d shot back. “Unlike them poor buggers down there.” He gestured with his thumb in the direction of the dockyard, indicating that sailors were lucky to get anything out of the slop chest that matched any of their crewmates’ clothing. Yes, some of the sailors had blue jackets and tarred hats, but that was hardly a uniform, and he’d met one or two poor sods who’d still had their old civilian shirts or breeches on.  
  
But the proof that he’d made the right choice came when the 33rd finally set sail. Nobody told them where they were going, of course, but one day they all paraded with full equipment, muskets, packs, blankets and the recently issued haversacks and canteens. They were marched down to the dockyard and split up into companies before going on board the transports.  
  
Some of the transports were requisitioned civilian ships, coal barges and the like. But the one that Sharpe and the Light Company found themselves on was an old fourth-rate, with the guns stripped out and hammocks slung below decks. Of course there were seamen there – soldiers couldn’t be expected to know anything about sailing – and Sharpe watched, dizzy, as they ran up the ratlines to set the sails. Only the oldest soldiers had ever sailed before, and these went below to get the best berths, leaving the younger, newer ones staring aloft in mingled admiration and bewilderment. The highest manmade thing many of them had ever seen before was a church steeple, and people didn’t go climbing all over that with the cat-like agility these sailors showed.  
  
During the voyage, the soldiers found themselves crowded into a space smaller then the barrack room they had recently vacated, with the additional difficulty of getting into the hammocks slung from the deckhead.  
  
The younger sailors had laughed at their efforts to get into the swaying hammocks, until an older man carrying a rope’s end had appeared and set them to showing the clumsy lobsters how to do it. The slur had stung; each soldier felt it, and applied himself to the task of not letting his uniform down.  
  
They had been at sea for two weeks, long enough for those least affected by seasickness to get over it. Sharpe had never imagined how much the movement of the ship could affect his stomach, and had fought desperately to avoid succumbing to seasickness. He’d crept up on deck one evening to where the sailors were entertaining themselves on the foc’sle, and sat by them, glad to be out of the misery of below deck suffering.  
  
One of the older seamen noticed him. “Didn’t expect to see any of the lobsters up here,” he said. Sharpe shook his head, mutely, very conscious of the attention these free-and-easy sailors were giving him.  
  
“Mind you, can’t be any fun for the poor landlubbers down there. Up on deck’s allus the best place to be when you’re feeling green, ain’t that so?” There was a mumble of agreement. “But then, we’ve all been at sea for years. Can’t rightly recall when us last stepped ashore. I dessay we’d feel just as queer on land as you do at sea.” Sharpe grinned faintly and settled down, with his back against the bulwark. He hadn’t thought of that, of course. And then there were no women allowed at sea, unlike the half-dozen or so soldier’s wives cramped down below, who’d been lucky enough to get permission to go to war with their husbands.  
  
All in all, Sharpe was glad he’d become a soldier. Even if he’d only done so because he was on the run from the hangman’s rope. He slowly rubbed his fingers over his red coat, wondering if he would grow old in the ways of the Army as these men had grown in the ways of the sea. He grinned, looking down at his coat, the sign of a soldier. Sharpe’s coat.


End file.
